Leave
by Ripsi
Summary: Claire Redfield is on leave for three months. Leon is concerned that she is being haunted by an incident, but nothing is more haunting than the mysterious and burnt neighbor next door. Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Resident Evil or its characters or any copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended in regards to images or brands used in this work.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've been out of the game for a while. I've had many changes in my life, heartbreaking changes, beautiful changes, and revelations that will test my relationship with my mother. I haven't been able to write, however, I've been the happiest I've been. I miss writing, and I'm sure you're all like, "Can't she finish ONE story?!" Well, maybe I should rebuild and even rewrite… I don't know. I had this idea though even while I was having writer's block for my other stories. It's actually been on paper and in my phone for months. So, here's another story, and I would like to say, screw the timeline. This is gonna be set in 2017 damn it. Let's go!

Leave- Claire Redfield is trying to live a normal life with boyfriend Timothy, but a new obsession with the strange neighbor next door threatens this life.

* * *

Being on leave was a beautiful thing. After three months of chasing a lead that led us straight to nowhere, I had had enough of TerraSave's goose hunts. My job had become my life, beating out everything else in importance. School was something that was a distant memory, and I'd long since stopped feeling bad for my failure to even achieve an Associate's. Bikes had no place in my life anymore, not even in my off months; I was expected to use that time to come down, socialize and live life as though I didn't possess a military level security clearance. During my off months all I did was come home, sleep for a few days on and off, call up Chris, and try to get back into a short groove with Tim. As soon as I'd become a civilian again, I was going to be shipped back off.

As I waited for my cab to come to its inevitable stop I scanned the comments of a YouTube video while listening to the pondering of the panel of SNN. It was good to hear them talking about something other than politics, and luckily no one had related the fight against bioterrorism to our sitting president and his policies. I adjusted the earbud that attempted to dislodge itself, paying more attention than before when the name "Ozwell E. Spencer" was uttered. I slid my thumb in a downward motion against the glass screen, returning it to the panel of anchors and correspondents that were typically at each other's throats. We were only two minutes and thirty-three seconds into the video though, so who knows how long that would last.

"It has now been four years since the death of the Umbrella Incorporated founder." Terry Bayonne made the announcement with what I interpreted as an air of uncertainty. Many people had refused to speak his name for a while, even after the announcement of the official removal of his name from the international list of Most Wanted. He'd become like bin Laden almost. People still questioned his status.

Then there was his cult. Followers of Umbrella had begun popping up throughout the world in small numbers. There were sects of people devoting themselves to elevating themselves to a godhood that their long-dead leader had never achieved himself. Right now they weren't high on our list of priorities, but every now and then we felt odd compulsions to check in on them. Right now they seemed to be more heavily concentrated in Russia for some reason, and members were flocking there in droves for what I imagined was right now nothing more than a circle-jerk fueled by delirium. Thanks to them, Umbrella was still alive. As I saw my apartment complex coming up, I reminded myself that it was not my problem right now.

My day had been spent unpacking, reconfiguring the apartment based on my own preferences, God knows that in three months, Tim had a field day. When I finished up I was ready to initiate my first, true step of leave: making contact with the one person that could determine my status in the company. I logged into my work portal, I checked my laptops' webcam, ensuring that my little, black strip of paranoia wasn't still obscuring it. You never know. I clicked on sessions.

As soon as the tab opened the crisp voice of a young, English woman said, "Hello Claire. You have 1 scheduled session."

A box appeared, asking if I was ready. With a quick, "Duh!" I dragged my mouse over to confirm. Immediately I was met with the gray-bearded smile of Dr. Cyrus. I smiled back, sitting back in my chair a bit so that my face didn't take up the whole screen. While I checked my little square to make sure that I was moving on his end, I greeted him. "Hi Dr. Cyrus."

With _the_ most professional, lecture voice one could imagine he responded, "Hello Claire, how are you today?" His gray hair was cut short, his cheeks were sunken in a way that you just knew that he was more than handsome in his younger years, and his thin nose added to that theory that at some point, Dr. Cyrus was statue of a man. The organization knew what they were doing by hiring him to be one of the first faces that you saw when you came back.

"Umm…" I held onto that word for a while, honestly unsure of how to answer. If I was someone returning to a family, I'd be happy, but hell, Chris was partly on when I was off and Tim was working on becoming Super Lawyer so I returned to an empty apartment that I only had because of him. I just didn't feel comfortable staying with a man half of the year and possibly come home to be put out. "It's weird."

"You'll get acclimated." He grinned. "What's the first thing you did when you got home?"

"Unpacked." It was a uniform response, very expected and the only thing that was acceptable.

He nodded and smiled just enough that this time I saw his slight smile lines and dimples through the healthy beard. "That's good." He looked down, reading what I'd come to figure were notes. "Have you had the chance to interact with anyone?"

"Only the taxi driver." God that sounded depressing.

With a nod, he put on that you-know face, preparing for a miniature lecture so that you wouldn't realize that you were being lectured. But I knew. "You know…"

I almost rolled my eyes. It had become a script at this point, fidelity that did no one any favors. For my own good, I needed to break the cycle. The company could say that I was predictable, and possessing a detrimental attribute could lead to the whole project being declared compromised.

"…it's easier to come back down when you have people to… remind you to come back down."

Yeah right, I thought to myself. People ask questions. People see your internal anguish and try to convince you that they can keep a secret, that you can lean on them. And that… That's how people die.

"You should try making friends Claire. Or get in touch with older friends that understand." For a moment he stopped speaking, looking down briefly. Fuck… I knew what was coming.

I breathed in deep, forcing happy thoughts of puppies and ice cream and coming to something substantial on leave. "Dr. Cyrus…"

He could tell that he'd touched on something that didn't need to be touched on. "The only way out of the woods is through them."

"I'm out of the woods." There was more attitude behind those words than intended. "What happened was a risk that I had to take. I still did my job."

He shook his head slowly as he said, "A risk but not an expectation. No woman should ever expect that."

The world of bioterrorism was violent and risky. It wasn't filled with geeky scientists that were afraid of being within five feet of women. It was filled with vendors, buyers, and things that you'd see in any mob movie. Things happened to women in this world that happened in any other world. Just because I preferred not to speak of it or talk about it, it didn't mean that these things didn't have to happen. And the good doctor was wrong; women _should_ expect it. Expect it to be prepared to prevent it if you could. I didn't say this though, because it wouldn't have looked good in my file.

"Have you been having nightmares?" he asked.

Which ones, I asked in my head. I could feel my fake smile fading, and so I refreshed it as I thought. He more than likely was referring to the incident as he seemed to shy away from questions that invoked the names of Raccoon City, Rockfort, or even the Antarctic. Those nightmares were gone… "It's been a few weeks," I estimated. So far, sleeping through the night was becoming the norm again, but PTSD was a tricky thing. I dreamed about zombies and Alfred for seven months straight until they stopped for maybe six weeks. Then, out of the blue I was spending a whole eight hours running from a rifle beam, trying to save Steve… I never did… not even in my dreams.

These sessions… they made me remember what I'd hidden from myself for years. Now I was face-to-face with the mangled, bruised, distorted, and bloody body of a boy that had fallen in love with me across the span of two continents.

"Where are you, Claire?"

Shit. My façade had faded like the memories of Steve Burnside wouldn't. To make a speedy and seemingly relevant recovery I replied, "I was just thinking about a boy I used to know." With my fake smile I shrugged. "That's all."

"Sometimes it's easier to revert to more innocent times." He sounded pleased that he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. "You can't stay in that fantasy Claire."

Why not? In that fantasy we plowed our way to the Australian base. We went so far away that Alexia couldn't reach us, that we radioed for rescue and I told Chris not to come. Alexia became _his_ problem and we flew back to the states with more damning testimonies of Umbrella that weren't dismissed this time. Steve finished high school while Chris and I watched Umbrella burn to the ground as they'd watched Raccoon City do. We felt the rejoicing of newly unburdened souls and vindicated families across the country. The lid was blown on all research of bio-weaponry, and the remaining STARS members, Chris included, were decorated for their efforts. Their records were cleared of the dirt and mud that had been slung on them at the behest of a now-folded –in my fantasy and reality- Umbrella.

Their pensions were reinstated and somehow supplemented for an immediate commencement of disbursements. Then I could go back to General Studies, wear too-short shorts that Chris disapproved of, and fixed up choppers in hopes of one day getting it right. I'd request no hush-money, no rewards, but rather a simple promise of a normal life. Throughout this fantasy I did not mention a particular name despite it lingering somewhere in my mind. He was the one person that could tear my fantasy apart. Without his persistence, his misguided ambition, my story could truly have a happy ending. The ending in which I didn't get raped.

"I just see his eyes." I just burst Dr. Cyrus' bubble.

* * *

The noise had become unbearable, barring me from getting any sleep whilst Tim snored next to me. With a huff I threw the sheets back, not bothering to redress my oblivious boyfriend. As I headed for my bathroom a distinct sound caught my ear and apparently my legs as I stopped dead in my tracks. There it was again. It sounded like furniture sliding across a wooden floor. I looked back at Tim one more time, resenting his normal life in which he could sleep through the bumps in the night, every one that was a threat to my life.

With an exaggerated caution that the everyday man had the luxury of not exhibiting, I crept into the darkness of my hallway, unable to see anything in the living room. The blackout curtains served two purposes: helping to trick my brain into sleeping and giving me an advantage over intruders. On nights like tonight though, even a sliver of moonlight would have been appreciated. Though I told myself it was nothing and deep down I knew that being on leave had lowered risks on my life by 3,000%, for some reason this disturbed me, No one had inhabited the apartment next door since the elderly tenant, Thelma Johnson had died years ago. So why was I hearing noises coming from next door at 2:16 AM in the middle of the month?

Taking in a deep breath, I stepped into the hallway, muscles tense as I attempted to convince myself to come back down. Claire, you're a civilian, I whispered to myself. Not a plank creaked beneath my weight as I blindly entered the front of my apartment, feeling no presence other than my own. I felt for the light switch on the wall, uselessly checking back into the darkness of the hallway to make sure that Tim had not awoken; he would attempt to deter me with reassurances that would do nothing for me but make me shake my head at his naivate. These thoughts instilled determination in me, putting the force behind my finger to flick on the light switch, illuminating the living room. As I heard more furniture being moved, I crossed the room slowly, squeezing between the couch and lamp against the wall. Placing my ear to the wall, I steadied myself, staring down at my feet that had sunken into the plush, beige carpet, waiting for another sign of life on the other side,

Ugh. I was chalking it up to me being out of my mind right now. I readied myself to push my body away from the wall, and then I heard it again. Eyes wide, I finally pushed back, taking a few steps away. That unfounded caution still present, I went to the kitchen, slowing down when I realized what I was about to do, I'm on leave. That thought kept me from rushing out the door, coat rack in hand. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I grabbed the doorknob, colder than it would've been to the touch had my palms not been sweaty. With my other hand, I went down the row of locks, counting them along the way. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

I turned my wrist, pushing the door out. After a moment of waiting, I peeked outside, looked down the hall to the right, seeing no one come up from the elevator. Then, I heard keys jingling to the left, my view blocked by my own door. Barefoot and clad in only some pajama shorts and a tank, I stepped onto the wooden floor of the hallway, keeping half of my body hidden by the heavy, wooden door. Then I saw it, briefly, but surely. A man in a wheelchair was being pushed through the next doorway. Clad in black, all of him was covered head to toe. The hoodie hid his face and hair, but before he was pushed inside I saw ghostly white hands, slightly marred by what appeared to be burns, gripping the arms of the chair. Before I could disappear, ashamed by the potential implications of my curiosity that was only due to a past that most knew nothing of, the man that was pushing the new tenant's head shot in my direction. Eyes black as coal attempted to shock me into place, but I was able to slide back into my apartment. I shut the door so hard that I swear the sound echoed down the hallway, possibly waking the tenants in the other two apartments, Tim included. With an inexplicable sweat dampening the back of my neck and armpits, I quickly turned the other locks, securing the entry. Before I saw those eyes, my fear was unwarranted, but now I felt that I would become a target of sorts. I could only imagine how red he had become with anger at my prying, his bald head probably the same shade.

Great job, Claire. I heard movement coming from the bedroom, and I prepared to lie, -as usual- to the man that I thought that I could live with lying to. Leave was officially bullshit.

Day 2

I'd seen Tim off, assuring him that I'd be fine with him working so much when I'd just gotten back. Companionship, the human need for it was honestly the only reason that I was with him. No matter how long I was gone, he was always here, waiting. Here he'd remain; he worked incredibly long hours, perfecting his ability to competently fulfill his duties as a corporate lawyer. Though barely above the bottom rung, he worked as though he was already at the top and he studied to aim higher than that. Our pairing was perfect in that our jobs were first above all. Despite the depressing purpose of our relationship, I was grateful that I had someone to lie down with some nights, someone to hold me. So I didn't feel bad for lying to him or holding back on what I was truly feeling.

All I felt at this moment was the leftover embarrassment from last night. So I had decided to offer an apology and welcome the new neighbor. Though I felt like hell from the long day of unpacking, I knew that the best strategy after last night's incident would be to come off as normal and as approachable as possible. Lucky for me, it was fall, and the look that said, "Normal, American woman," was a pair of Uggs, leggings, an oversized shirt, and a sweeping cardigan. Dr. Cyrus suggested breaking from any on-duty trends to get back into the feel or normal life. A messy bun was now considered okay to wear about so I threw my mess of un-straightened hair up, high on top of my crown, unsecuring a few strands to subtly frame my face. With a huff, I decided that I was ready.

When I heard my door close behind me, I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to do this: the right thing. Still, I had decided to go forward. Wait, I was literally going forward, like, to the neighboring apartment. Oh God, I didn't remember telling my feet to move. A lump had suddenly developed in my throat as I faced the door, and I was somehow at the ready to knock. Fuck, I was on auto-pilot. Before I could swallow down the anxiety in my throat, I gave the cop knock that I kicked myself for forgetting to leave at the airport. Suddenly, my mind was in a swirl that made me physically ill, so ill that my armpits began to sweat and for some reason itch. Just as I'd resolved to make this a game of ding-dong ditch, I heard a set of heavy footsteps. Shit. Then as the door creaked open, I stepped back, allowing space. This wasn't a door, it was going to wind up being a portal to some unnecessary shit and I knew it.

Standing incredibly tall at about 6'5, the slender, bald man from last night with those coal, black eyes presented himself to me. He looked pissed.

Putting my failed past as a pageant girl to work, I pasted on my best smile. Our initial encounter was not for a welcome, and depending on how this went he more than likely still wouldn't get one. "Hi." God that wasn't enough. "I'm Claire Redfield, I live next door."

He stood there, silently asking me what the fuck that meant.

"So, I just wanted to apologize for last night." I fidgeted a bit, both nervous and anxious as I would've preferred that he do the "normal" thing and tell me why he was here. I fought the urge to peek into the doorway, knowing that though being nosy was my job, that it was rude in civilian-life. "I'm on leave from work and I just haven't readjusted-"

"Are you military?" he interjected, his expression being one of genuine interest.

I shook my head no, swallowing a lump that came from the sad reminder that I really had no one outside of the organization to talk to about it. Some of its operations were in fact military, but I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't even tell Tim that.

Looking regretful for me, despite not possibly being able to know my situation, he nodded. "I met who I believe to be your boyfriend this morning. Tim?"

Arms crossed over my chest, I gave a small smile and a nod. "That would be him." I was now pissed; had Tim come over here? For what? What did they talk about? Claire, stop. I took a deep breath; I was on leave. Tim was my boyfriend and he wasn't trying to double-cross me.

"It's no trouble," he assured me, a tiny smile present meant to comfort me. "I'm Walter." He extended a hand far larger than my own, which I forced myself to take without hesitation. We shook twice and both of our smiles widened. When he released his grip, he seemed to relax, taking a step back and more than likely failed to notice that he'd created the slightest view into the apartment.

I tried to remain polite, not to pry. The sound of an argument on SNN floated towards me, but I still didn't look. "So, how are you settling in so far?"

"Quite smoothly." The door had opened another bit, but I kept it together. "I guess I should ask the same of you?"

"It's been okay. Day 2 and all." Lying about normalcy had become a specialty. It was a habit that my words could so seamlessly betray my thoughts.

Innocently, he asked, "What is it that you do?" Or was it innocent?

That internal question told me that it was okay for me to take a tiny peek. From such a quick glance though, I only saw the shadow of a recliner. Masking my inquisitiveness I responded apologetically almost, "I can't really talk about my work."

He gave a nod of understanding. Behind him, I heard a cough. Not a normal, small, throat-clearing cough either, but a cough associated with a malady. This took not only his attention away from our conversation but mine as well.

This time, I could make out a figure in a dark hoodie. When I realized that Walter would probably prefer to return to our conversation, I put my smile back on just in time for him to look back at me. "So what do you do, Walter?"

With a mischievous smirk he echoed my response from just a minute ago. "I can't really talk about my work."

At first, I giggled, unsure if he was serious or a smartass. Then nothing came. Maybe it was a test. I felt the smile falling from my face as the plausibility of a scenario played in my head. It was a cruel scenario that I'd heard whispers of while on duty but why would this happen to me? Had I not proven that I wasn't cuckoo? Okay Claire… stabilize. I'm not really on leave… am I? I shook that from my head for now. "Look, I'm sorry for last night. No one's been over here in years so…"

He cleared his throat. "No, I apologize; it was quite a ruckus- our moving in."

Stuck on the word "our," I asked, "Oh, is it you and your wife?" Much less intrusive.

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, I heard coughing again, this time it was not stopping. It was the kind of a struggle to breathe, the kind that made your head ache and made you feel like you'd never catch your breath. That cough caught and captured Walter's attention once again, giving me time and the opportunity to lean to the right so that I could see a bit more. Moving boxes lined the walls of an otherwise bare living room, save for a lamp in the corner… and that chair. As I peered further inside I noticed that the mysterious person in the chair was the person who was hacking their lungs up, but they were fighting to stay upright. Then I could see it, a blackened hand tightly gripping the arm of the chair.

It was burned. Burn marks that looked eerily fresh marred a pale hand, giving it an unsettling contrast that made it hard to look away from it. Before I knew it I felt my body drifting forward, drawn to find out what was going on in the apartment next door to me.

"I'm sorry!" he said, bringing me back to the hallway. "It was nice meeting you Claire!" With no time to stammer a few words back, the door was slammed in my face. The barrier did not stop me from hearing footsteps, shuffling, more coughing, and a gruff voice shout, "Just get the medicine!" Then silence. This moment felt oddly surreal and familiarly suspect. This could only lead me to one conclusion that I tried with all of my might to stay away from, but there was only one explanation that could possibly exist, that i would have preferred to exist over any other. Okay then Cyrus… game on.

A/N: Let me know how this is looking. I didn't have time to proofread because I won't be home for the next two days! I will be updating the other stories soon as well! I promise! Okay, I'm done exclaiming things through text.


	2. Chapter 2

Day 3

Last night I had a nightmare that was a direct descendant of my session yesterday. Cyrus' little game had been revealed. As the sounds of furniture being pushed next door floated through the walls I drank my hot tea from a mug, staring as though my efforts would grant me x-ray vision.

"Claire, I'm out!" Tim's announcement brought me back to the reality of the dining area and away from the faint noises of wood being dragged along a wooden floor. "God, they're still moving stuff?"

I smirked. Claire, don't mention him meeting Walter, I chided myself. As he came to stand next to my chair I could see out of the corner of my eye that his tie was hanging, unsecured. I stood up from my chair and grabbed the ends. "Here, let me help." Trigger. Tim's stubble was the same, just lighter in color, and he had the same length of hair, but it was parted on the side and slicked back. His nose was thin, as was his with a little bump on his bridge. 5'10, he was too short. His eyes weren't as sunken, but they were as tired, as brown. The tie in my hands, it felt different now that I wasn't trying to claw it from my neck. Candy cane stripes made it look innocent.

Yet the tie was all he needed. My throat was closed, my screams cut off by someone other than me. An attempt at a breath was in vain, made evident when they grew shallower with each attempt to fuel my lungs. It all grew hazy, dark and fuzzy as the little bit of light betrayed me by becoming nothing more but blots on an oil painting. When the tie loosened I wanted it back as my involuntary gasp of air brought the pain with sweet oxygen. The fire in my throat was almost as blinding as my asphyxiation. His wet, hot hand touched my cheek, matching my own in pallor and temperature so that he'd already become one with me. His thumb pressed down on my bottom lip as I coughed and gasped, and then I felt it…

"Forget how to do it?"

I fell into a coughing fit, holding onto the cheap, round table made of a dark, stained, plastic, wood grain for support.

"Claire?!"

"I'm fine!" I coughed like it was all happening. It wasn't. Holding the edge of the table, I sat back down, feeling tears attempt to collect as my eyes burned. No, Claire.

Tim grabbed my shoulders. "Are you okay?!"

Blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay I said in between coughs, "I'm fine. I just swallowed wrong."

With an incredulous laugh he patted me on the back and so he would just stop I cleared my throat to try to end my spell. "Don't scare me like that again!" He cupped my face in his hands. "God, you're as dramatic as ever."

I managed a smile, but if Tim were as perceptive as he thought he would've seen that in my eyes there was more. "And I love you."

I was caught off guard. Automatically, I grabbed his face, his hands still on mine, and I pressed my mouth to his. I was supposed to right?

With more passion, more desire, and more love than I could manage to muster, he brought a hand to the back of my head, gently grabbing tresses of my hair that had grown too long for my taste, deepening what started as barely more than a peck. He pulled back. "Try not to chew gum and walk today," he whispered.

Almost instantly, I slapped him across the chest. "Get out!" I playfully yelled.

"All right, all right!" He looked down thoughtfully at his forgotten tie. "I'll figure it out," he assured me, pulling it loose and from around his neck. "So what's the plan today?"

As I prepared to tell him, "nothing," I ran my fingers through my hair, the act itself giving me an idea. "You'll see"

* * *

When I walked into the salon, I didn't know what I wanted to do. Should I have gotten a bob? Should I have gone blonde? Decisions, decisions. Too big of a decision would have brought more attention to the… incident. This attention was not the kind that was meant to be supportive either, but rather a criticism attached to me in regards to my value to the organization. Was I too broken to move seamlessly within? Would I creak? Would I snap? Would my wounds fester and leave behind an inimitable air that announced that it was from my own, personal brand of suffering?

A decision needed to be made, lest I walk inside and run out like a coward. So I browsed for a moment, considering every option that I had as anxiety crept over me, coating my stomach so thickly that I felt twenty pounds heavier. That anxiety would not leave me until I made a choice that would bring me one step closer to walking out of that salon with some transformation, no matter how small. Questions would be asked, comments made, and I would more than likely be made to feel guilty for wanting a change in myself. I couldn't cut my hair as it was the most obvious change that screamed, "My past doesn't define me." To make it all look less conspicuous I also decided to have a "spa day." Now I looked new, but in a typical way a woman would. My hair was darker in color with a few traces of copper left behind to act as highlights and to further distinguish myself from the me that went through the shit that I had gone through. I also requested a perm to give myself a beach wave that would last through workout sessions and washes, so the dye was a demi with a much greater pigment than I could have gotten from a permanent.

I looked civilian for once.

As I waited for my Jeep to be released I popped into the nail salon next door, treating myself to a mani/pedi. For a moment I stared at my nails that were so not me, giving me a look of femininity that I'd fought since I acquired consciousness. They were a deep, red with an unavoidable shine due to some convincing to get a gel coat. It wasn't a decision that I'd regretted though. I stared at my matching toes in the lime-green, foam flip-flops provided for me to wear out of the shop. I started to wonder what kind of mindset I'd take on though if I continued this. What if I became a woman that kept a standing appointment? The kind of woman that didn't feel right without an overlay and color? Had I run out of that fuel? That drive to fight? Had this exhaustion led me to yearn for a lifestyle that I'd denied myself?

I thought back to how I felt when I looked back at myself when the proud stylist revealed the results of her labor. I looked like I was normal. I looked the way I was supposed to on leave. I could've still been a student, the fun friend, Tim's colleague… I could've been anything. These what-ifs occupied my mind the entire drive back to my apartment. So much that I made it upstairs without remembering to collect my shoes from the floor of the passenger's side in the Jeep. I dropped my head in a highly exaggerated display of exasperation, trudging back to the elevator and to the parking lot. It could have waited, but what if I wanted to wear them later? I didn't have anything else to do other than sign on for a chat with Dr. Cyrus and I was dreading that.

I opened the door and immediately found the pair of gray, barely-worn Timbs, looking around to see no activity other than my own. Yet it felt like eyes were set on me. The quiet of the complex was so unnervingly deliberate that I had to remind myself not to revert to my previous mindset that kept me alive while on duty. As I shut my door and secured my boots under my left arm I allowed my eyes to wander to my window upstairs that was left drawn to allow the sun to naturally warm my apartment since it was too warm for heat and too cool for air-conditioning. The sun's reflection directed a glare from the glass back at me and as I turned my head to escape it I saw curtains falling in a window of the adjacent apartment. So someone was watching me.

 _Or maybe someone looked to see what was going on just outside. You did just loudly slam your door shut._

I still continued to stare though. Who was checking? Was it Walter? Was it the roommate with no identification provided? I remembered that hand. Burned so that the white skin was in such stark and dramatic contrast. So fresh. I'd seen sixth-degree burns but I knew that there was such a slim chance of coming back from that that there was no way that's what I saw. The severity was haunting nonetheless. Charred skin wasn't something that you forgot and it wasn't something that you just brushed off when witnessed.

Rather than head back to my apartment I locked my doors and headed to the office a few buildings down. The receptionist, a pretty, blonde in her early thirties greeted me rather warmly. She was obviously new and in need of this position. The office always reminded me of high school with its too-high counter, the mounds of paperwork hidden by it, and now the new hire that looked like she belonged in a library with her square-framed glasses and dated, ruby lipstick. She wore a pink, floral top that was too flowy for my tastes and she had a mole over her top lip to the right of her cupid's bow. I could see her cleavage very clearly with the provision of her low-cut shirt and a pointless, black cami that did little to cover as was its intention.

"Can I help you?" Her question revealed a set of neglected, smoker's teeth that were not being done a service with a porcelain mug of coffee –also stained- sitting on a separate desk to the left against the wall. More than likely, this was job one for her day, and if she'd give up two packs she probably wouldn't have even needed to be here.

"Yes, I'm Claire Redfield. I came to see Joe." The property manager had a soft spot for me. I was his best tenet; I was never home.

"Give me just a second sweetheart," she continued smiling, wrenching one out of me. She picked up the phone and hit four numbers, but then she frowned, setting it back on the receiver. With a nervous smile, she picked it back up and punched in four more numbers, this time giving a chuckle. "I am so sorry," she said regretfully, going through the failed process once more. With a huff this time, the phone still I hand she yelled, "Joe! You have a visitor!"

A thick, Jersey accent came from behind the door in back with "Why are you yelling?"

"The phone's not working!"

"Well, who is it?"

"Sara Fields!"

"WHO?!"

I almost gave her my best face palm, embarrassed for the both of them and their complete lack of professionalism. "Claire Redfield!" I shouted before she could further butcher my name.

"Well, send her back!"

With a nod to the secretary, I headed for the wooden door just beyond her desk with a sign that read, "Joseph Russo."

A mess lay beyond the door, discarded filing folders were strewn about a wooden desk that had lived through the construction of a previous complex that was probably far across town. Its sharp corners were padded with brown, Duck Tape, leading one to assume that an accident or two had occurred here in the past. An out-of-place MacBook set in the far, left corner, providing a blunt disparity between past and future. It also pointed to the ideals of efficiency held by the forty-something-year-old man that preferred to keep a mess for the sake of his own form of productivity.

"Claire!" Joseph threw his arms out in excitement upon seeing me. "Love the hair! How have you been?"

"Same as always." I looked around his desk again at the mess. A black blazer was draped over the back of black, office chair with leather that was undoubtedly splitting on the seat. His white button-up was unfastened just until it reached wiry, sparse, chest hairs that barely peeked out. His brown hair was slicked back, displaying a hairline that was beginning to recede just above his temples, but long ago he'd accepted that he would begin balding at some point. "You've been busy." It was small talk that would act as a formality. I didn't come here with the sole intention of visiting. Though the company was appreciated I was preoccupied with the thoughts that Dr. Cyrus was perhaps toying with the psychological aspect of my leave, and though simply quitting would have been my option in a former life I merely wanted to prove everyone back at the organization wrong about me.

 _Raccoon City survivors are not broken._

"Ah, no!" He waved his hand around. "Julia is a mess," he leaned in and whispered. Joe was always a bit of a comedian but I could tell that there was a bit more behind that statement than I was privy to. "So, how may I help you? I'm sure you didn't just come here for my company."

At that, I took a seat in the chair closest to the door and gave a smile of guilt. "It seems that I have new neighbors, Joe."

He raised a bushy, brow to silently ask what of it. "It's what typically happens when there's an available apartment."

With a skeptical smirk, I crossed my legs.

"Look," he leaned in and lowered his voice as though he was prepared to tell me a secret, and you'd better believe that I was interested. "I know you didn't want another neighbor but you weren't exactly paying the rent on the space. These are nice apartments and this guy was willing to pay top notch for it. Plus, what comes next? The Ackermans and the Johnsons move out and then you want me to leave the whole floor vacant for you?"

I looked at the rubber tree in the corner, feeling slightly ashamed of myself for ever bringing that proposal to him in the first place. "It was unfair."

"Hell, even Tim was coming over and referencing family members that needed a place to stay."

My head snapped back in his direction at this information. Why was Tim seemingly running to someone before I did? Thus far he'd been one step ahead of me in every idea.

 _Tim's not a part of this._

I crossed my arms over my chest, drawing away from him even though a desk separated us. I needed to remind myself that favors were basically investments, and I'd invested nothing into an apartment that was costing my "friend" money not to rent out. "Well, can you at least tell me who these guys are?"

With a sharp sigh and an incredulous expression he sat back and looked up to the ceiling. "You're the neighbor. Ask 'em."

"I'm asking you." I'd officially gone back to on-duty mode at this moment.

"Some bald guy named Walter Shilling came to me two weeks ago practically begging for that spot. Offered up three months of rent plus last month's. Said he wanted a short lease, only half a year, but he needed it right now really bad." His demeanor was disconcerting. Something about this deal was bothering Joe and it was more and more evident with each bit of information that he provided me.

"He didn't give you any information?"

"About himself? No."

"But you're renting him an apartment. There are stipulations."

He looked around and bit his lip, seeming at a loss. As his eyes darted around an idea struck me. He wasn't going to just hand over information, I had to ask for him to be able to paint the picture for me.

"There's another man. One in a wheelchair. Who is he?"

As soon as the question left my lips, he lifted a few filing folders and slide one out. He peeked inside before saying in a low voice, "Scott Connor, in his forties."

I mentally took all of this in. "What does he do?"

"He's retired."

"Retired from what?"

"He was one of those doctors that ran around the world. Third-world shitholes." It was a very flimsy alibi if it were an alibi, but who was present to dispute any of this?

"Have you seen him?" Flashes of that ghostly, white hand, charred by God know what kind of fire assaulted me. I wish I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd only wanted the confirmation from someone else that what I'd witnessed was a reality.

"No." I'd almost become disappointed until he added, "But the Walter guy said that he'd been forced into retirement. Some accident." Once he saw that my own gears were turning he almost jumped up from his chair. "You don't think this has something to do with what happened?"

I raised my hands to signal for him to calm down. "Joe."

Slowly, he took his seat again, not appearing any calmer, but willing to hear me out. "I wasn't supposed to make it out of that city, Claire."

"None of us were."

"You think those cult psychos could have come to Aurora?" It was a thought to be considered but easily dismissed as well. The cultists were at the bottom of our list of priorities and they'd been flocking to Russia as of late. White supremacists in Aurora? Sure. Fanatic cultists though?

I got to my feet. "Don't go changing your name just yet." I couldn't make any promises about getting the organization on it, but I could do my own digging. I just had to be discreet about it all.

* * *

When I heard a knock at my door I couldn't believe that I was excited about it. Usually, I dreaded company that wasn't my brother and some days I wasn't looking forward to that, but I'd still had an agenda and an old friend happened to be in the area. He claimed he just happened to be in the area that is. All I'd requested was a phone conversation, but I knew that it would be better for me to just accept the intel however he preferred to give it. I opened the door with progressively waning expectations over the years; Leon was not handling life in the way that I hoped he would have. He'd been failing to shave, get a haircut, or apparently get some sleep. I'd come to the conclusion that he was attempting to work himself to death due to his lack of time off. I couldn't tell you the last time that he hopped on a plane to go somewhere that was not in need of his… skills.

Without a word of salutation, only a smirk of what appeared to be relief, he walked past me to stand just behind me as I closed the door. Once only one of my myriad of locks had been secured, I turned to face him and was immediately being smothered by the brown leather of his jacket. This was almost ritual, one that I had missed dearly despite the following conversations being filled with the rehashing of repressed memories and conspiracy theories.

As I turned my head into his chest, finding his heartbeat, I felt my arms raise around his waist. This was the closest thing that I had to home. His scent was back, untainted by the whiskey and bourbon that had been permeating his skin for the past year. He smelled like Leon again, and it was indescribable but in combination with his Eros cologne, I could confidently say that he smelled like a fresh start. He smelled untouched by everything that had touched him, and he felt so solid that I knew that I'd made the right decision in mentally declaring him my anchor in life. As long as Leon Scott Kennedy survived, then so would I.

"Your hair smells weird."

Rather than becoming offended I gave a chuckle and rolled my eyes, that action unseen to him. "I got a perm."

He pulled me back cupping my cheek in one and bringing the other up to rub the freshly, cut ends of my hair.

"Annnnnd I got it dyed."

He scoffed. "Nice." He released me completely to go take a seat on the tan, leather sectional in the living area. "So, what's up?" Upon taking a seat near the window he leaned on the arm of the chair with his right elbow, resting his left hand on his knee with both of his legs open in what adorable, awkward Leon considered "cool." All that was missing was a beer, but he was sober now and I wanted him to stay that way for the rest of his visit. At the sound of furniture groaning as it was moved across a wooden floor shot from next door his head snapped to the side. "'The hell?"

Holding my hands out towards the wall as if presenting something I said with sarcastic enthusiasm, "Meet my new neighbors: Scott Connor and Walter Shilling!"

"Gay, new neighbors?" he inquired, quite seriously.

"No." I finally came over to take a seat next to him, a move that seemed to give him approval to drape his arm around the back of the couch. "Leon, I need some information about the cults."

He rubbed his eyes. "That's what you called me about?"

"Look, it'd make me and another survivor feel better if you could just tell us that Aurora isn't seeing any of them."

He licked his lips, took in a deep breath, and probably thought of how much better he'd feel with alcohol in his system. "There's been an uptick in hate groups and domestic terrorism but I don't think that has anything to do with the cults. This has more to do with the political climate. The cult takes anyone."

"You don't think they could be recruiting them though?"

"Claire, you're talking about a bunch of losers that are already indoctrinated in cults."

Arguing any further would definitely make it seem like I wanted there to be something even if there wasn't. "I'm sorry. I just felt the need to ask for a friend."

At that, he settled into the couch more, a longing in his eyes that I should have placed so that I could avoid his probing into an area that he was restricted from. "What's really wrong?"

"Leon," I said almost warningly. I didn't want this to go any further. My own brother was being kept in the dark about my incident report, but I was sure that Leon had been snooping. I couldn't do this. I couldn't explain to either of them that I'd finally fallen prey to the horrors of this world. It was like a career-ending admission. Even worse, it was confirmation that I, a woman had no business throwing myself into the fray. Little Claire Redfield had found herself alone with a wolf in disguise, and she was utterly devoured. It didn't matter that he was thrown into a prison set deep into the earth. He was still here and people knew that because of what had happened he still had power over me. He'd overpowered me, he'd taken me, and he now owned me.

"Claire," he began, a look of heartbreak breaking my composure. "There was an incident report."

"There are incident reports written up all the time!" I countered in an urgent whisper.

"A personal, incident report..." If Leon saw it then it should have just told me. Outright lying was an option that I didn't want to take up, and telling him didn't feel like an option at all. I was strong. I was Claire Redfield. I had survived the Raccoon City incident after valiantly riding in to save my brother, I had been imprisoned on two continents because I was just that loyal and badass. I survived the horrors of Rockfort, the devastation in Antarctica, and I came out of it to become one of the most productive members of an Anti-Bio Terrorism effort. One incident, one loss of a battle in an on-going war did not define who I was or how I should be viewed.

 _Then why not tell him?_

Because I needed no sympathy, nurturing, or Purple Heart in this world that had come about thanks to Umbrella. No matter how glassy my eyes had become, no matter how my throat burned as I held back the tremble that wanted to control my voice, I would maintain my face of resolve. I won. Every day that I fought I won. Leon would not take this from me. No one would.

"Claire," his own voice was raspy, his own eyes shining with tears. "I swear I'll kill him."

My lip twitched, I nodded inexplicably and involuntarily as though I simply needed to move. I felt something cold and wet hanging from one of my bottom lashes, and I told myself I still wasn't crying. When the tear finally met my cheek I felt my composure shatter.

Leon wasted no time in grabbing me, pulling me close into his chest as I began to sob silently as my voice became caught in my throat. This silence was unintended and I realized that once again my attacker had taken my voice. He began to rock gently, his hand on top of my head as he forced me to look away from him. Any doubt that he had managed to keep it together was gone when I felt him shaking, his shoulders moving up and down quickly.

I held him tighter than I had been and shut my eyes so tightly that there was nothing but blackness and the feel of him. "He didn't win, Leon."

He let out a gasp that more than likely kept a wail at bay, and he pulled back to grab my face in his hands.

Opening my eyes I could see that his were becoming red as a torrent of tears soaked his cheeks. I placed my hands atop his, rubbing my thumbs over the back of his hands.

He brought his forehead to mine, closing his eyes and causing two tears to fall to the leather beneath us. We stayed there for so long that I wondered what time it was, so long that our eyes had dried, but not so long that they could lie. His breathing had finally returned to normal and now he rubbed his cheek against mine, and it would have been lovingly had the stubble not scratched me slightly with his movement. Whatever the sentiment behind it, I appreciated this tender affection. Tim didn't know what I'd been through, so he didn't know any better in his actions that made me feel like nothing more than a means to an end. Tim only knew me as invincible.

 _Did Tim know me at all?_

Before I could ponder that I heard locks turning, the sound proving to be the only thing that could pull me away from this moment that was the closest thing to peace that I'd experienced in what felt like an eternity.

A/N: Please don't hate me for this slow build-up. Something about this story has honestly captured me. I intended for it to be short but as I think of its progression I feel it becoming longer than I first wanted. I keep seeing a part II but we'll see how this goes. Also, I've never been a Claire/Leon fan, however in some parts, it may lean that way because of the nature of their relationship and what Claire has been through. I've decided on a very different approach with this story. This chapter was going to be longer but if I didn't stop it was going to be too long. It would have ended on a "normal" note and I hate to say it but this just feels like it may keep you all intrigued. So yeah, expect more soft-core cliff-hangers throughout this story. Anyway, drop a review and let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I've begun updating Optio, starting from chapter one. I think I've reached chapter three. It's not the update everyone wants but for me, it's a start. The tweaks are subtle in some places and noticeable in others as I've gone so far as to change some parts of the story.

Day 3

We'd parted so quickly that there was no way that Tim had seen anything. Leon's gaze was too obvious though; he wasn't even looking at him. Instead, he stared at the black, television screen with a finger resting thoughtfully -almost worriedly- against his lips.

When I looked at Tim he was exclaiming loudly something about the wind as he took longer than usual to shut the door behind him.

When he finally looked up, his eyes appeared to light up with joy. "My man!" His excitement at seeing Leon was a bit confusing at times. He greeted him like they were bros that regularly hung out together, but in reality, the two had only hung out a handful of times when Leon came to visit me and I was out. He shrugged off his thin, brown jacket and took three long strides to reach over me.

Leon managed a grin somehow, despite our prior mood, and got up so they could go in for that weird hug men loved so much. When they released each other I expected a proper greeting from my boyfriend, but instead, he proceeded to ask Leon about his latest developments.

When I'd heard enough of them each saying nothing was going on I cleared my throat noisily. "I mean, I've got something new actually going on."

Tim's excitement had markedly declined when he switched into the loving-caring-boyfriend mode. "Oh, wow. You actually got it done." I'd been talking about a perm for a while now just to switch it up from the usual, pin-straight 'do I'd been sporting my whole life. "It looks great, babe." His response was obligatory, and it bothered me more that he was still more so concentrated on Leon's presence. I chalked it up to a lack of male interaction. "So, am I interrupting some secret meeting?"

Before I could answer, Leon quickly said, "No. I just got the call that Claire was back in town and I figured I'd swing by to see her."

Tim crossed his arms over his chest, a smile still present. "How long you staying man, because we've got the spare bedroom?"

"Thanks, man, but I'm only gonna be here for a few weeks. Accommodations have already been made."

"Well, where'd they set you up at?"

"Homewood."

Tim raised his brows, impressed at the selection and probably at how much money that meant that the US was shelling out for Leon's living arrangements. "Nice. Kitchen, living area, bedroom…"

"It's like an apartment without the lease."

"Hey, you want a beer?" Before Leon could accept or –preferably- decline, Tim was already heading towards the refrigerator. When he returned with the uncapped bottle in hand, Leon left him hanging. "All I've got is Michelob."

With a nod, Leon slowly reached for the beer, tilting it to thank Tim, but rather than take a swig he set it on the coffee table. Before awkwardness could settle, a loud thud came from next door, earning a glance from all of us.

With a heavy sigh, I stared at the wall as if I was able to see through it. "Scott and Walter sound like they need some help."

After swallowing a large gulp of beer, Tim said, "If they're not settled in a week we can offer our services. That Scott guy… I don't know about him."

Everything awkward between us disappeared, and I was now completely entranced by this mention of our strangest new neighbor. "Have you seen him?" I noted the apparent excitement in my voice and told myself to gather my emotions. I'd just never seen anyone suffer such burns and live to tell about it. I needed someone else to tell me that they had seen it too.

"No," he shook his head almost disappointedly.

I folded my arms over my chest. "All I know is that he was a traveling doctor. Judging by what I've seen of him, I'm guessing that his retirement was forced."

A silence began to settle, and just as I was about to continue on the subject of our neighbors, Leon shot up from the couch. "Look, it was nice stopping in. I have to get back to the room, let Hunnigan know that I'm actually on vacation this time."

I wanted to protest, but Tim looked like he was going to do that for me. Instead, I asked, "How much time do you have exactly?"

With a smirk, he replied, "I was actually kind of sent away… from the building."

Tim gave a nod. "Sometimes that's gotta be done. I swear Claire would probably be gone year-round if she could."

Sometimes, I feel that way, I thought to myself. As we said our goodbyes to my friend I felt a sadness come over me that seemed illogical. He'd be like, twenty miles away. A text could be sent in no time, but if he walked out of that door I just felt that something would be so off. I didn't want Leon to go.

* * *

I'd been lying in bed for a while. There was nothing else to do. I ran my fingers back and forth over the black sheet beneath me, scratching at the tightly-woven threads with a crimson nail, competing with the sound of Tim loudly brushing his teeth in the bathroom. The rushing water would've lulled me to sleep years ago when my biggest concern was getting through English class without Colby Pratt noticing me staring at him, but now it served an important purpose to me at this moment. The noise complimented the sleep dread that I'd been experiencing since… the incident. It amazed me. How could I slip into sleep when I knew that Alfred Ashford was skulking just around a corner, but after that, I feared sleep more than any BOW?

How could it have been that the biggest threat to me in my dreams was now a tie around my throat rather than a set of teeth? When did a bullet penetrating my vest become trivial in comparison to… Vulgar thoughts were unwelcome on this vulgar topic that I chose to avoid except in the safe confines of my mind. As I heard the stream of water stop, Tim spit, I drew into myself to set the tone for bedtime. Tim touching me was typically held off for day three of my leave, but I couldn't bear the thought of having obligatory sex with someone. I heard the light switch being flicked off, heard the heavy footfall that I knew was intended to rouse me had I dozed off, and felt the bed sink in behind me.

With another flip of a switch, we were bathed in darkness, and I felt the unbearable heat of his body before he even made contact with me. He pulled me by my waist, his arm digging into me painfully, but I tried to look okay as I followed his pull and turned over. I couldn't even smile in the dark, I could barely breathe. He grabbed my face, completely unaware of my anxiety, but to me, it just felt like he didn't care. I knew if I told him he would. Right? Right. His mouth found its way to my neck where I felt him place heated kisses and leave behind a trail of warm saliva. Then he was on top of me, throwing back the sheet, feeling that same unbearable heat that I had felt as well.

Robotically, my arms made their way around his bare back, but I did not move beneath him as I would have before. I stayed still, petrified as if I'd been struck by lightning. Paralyzed. Was I being silly? My attacker didn't kiss me. No. It was the unsolicited contact, the fact that I hadn't shown interest in physical contact with Tim. A peck on the lips was one thing, but sex? Please no.

He continued kissing me, his lips finding my own that failed to be responsive. As he moved against me, the only one dancing to this sick song, I felt him hardening against my thigh, flinching at the feel of the smooth, hardened tumescent. It took so little for men, and now I was feeling sick to my stomach, each of us teetering on opposite ends of the scale. He was heavier though, and I could feel myself falling to him, holding onto my naïve thoughts with surfaces so smooth and thin that I should have just let go. I should just let him devour me.

And I did.

He'd attempted to penetrate me, needing the assistance of him licking his hand only to rub it against my entrance. In the dark, my tears weren't real. I told myself that the warm wetness on the sheets could be easily mistaken for sweat. Tim couldn't have known. My muscles were rigid not with an impending orgasm, but with horror, with the belief that if I held him tightly then he'd notice nothing. I did not moan but breathe so heavily with each thrust that he might mistake them for sounds of pleasure.

His face was buried in my neck as he panted the usual. "Fuck!" "Claire, I missed you." "I love you so fucking much." He thought this was passionate, but I only wrapped my arms around him even more tightly, grabbing at the hair above the nape of his neck. I'd been biting my bottom lip so hard that I began to taste blood. It was only a few thrusts away from it being over. As I felt him coming inside of me, I felt myself letting go, now haunted by the revelation that no matter who it was, no matter their intent, it would now all seem the same to me.

It was all violent.

* * *

Day 4

A storm was brewing, it was all they talked about on the news. There was an expected flood, but every time one came this complex was left untouched. This meant that I didn't really care about evacuating. My biggest concern would have been Tim had he not unknowingly forced me into confronting a monster that existed only for me, and perhaps for Leon. It was unfair that I placed such high expectations on him when he had no idea that he needed to modify his behavior for my sake. I wouldn't tell him though. I'd been tested for everything at least three times, I'd scrubbed my body raw, and I'd abstained from any solo sexual activity, far too disgusted with my own body and the profane things that had been done with it. I couldn't bring myself to say the "R" word; it meant so much more than what people realized, and it felt incredibly diminutive that the word had only four letters.

Four letters could ruin so many lives.

A simple word had so many complexities. I should have been focusing more on the storm. Dr. Cyrus had told me as much. He said that the possible loss of electricity was going to be more harmful to me and my mental state if I didn't prepare myself. He was right. I went out and bought myself a backup battery pack to charge my phone in case the power did go out, a case of water, food that required no prep, and a flashlight with extra batteries. I had a few more days before the initial rain started, but after that people would be arriving at the supercenters in droves as though it were the last days.

I'd advised Leon that if he planned on hanging around then it was best that he also purchase some food since he wouldn't be able to go anywhere. Even the hotel restaurant would be shut down due to the expected and excused high volume of callouts. This preparation was keeping my mind occupied all right, so much that I failed to even mention what happened last night… If I would have divulged that information, Cyrus would be well on his way into his checklist of why I should be either suspended or discharged from duty. With a heavy sigh, I stuffed bags of chips and popcorn into the cabinet overhead, but upon the sound of a loud thud, I let my eyes wander to that damned wall that I shared with Walter and Scott.

Shutting the cabinet door, I took a few steps towards the wall, staring so hard that I began to squint. It wouldn't help. A louder thud caused me and my heart to jump. I grabbed my chest, feeling the muscle beat uncontrollably. What did I expect? As I turned to walk away I heard muffled yells, and they weren't excited or instructive. It sounded almost volatile, hateful, and I didn't want to listen anymore. Without thinking, I had exited the apartment and began knocking on the door.

Swift and heavy footsteps responded with what I considered to be relief and gratefulness for a distraction as all the yelling had ceased. The door swung in quickly, and Walter appeared, pleasantly surprised. "How are you, Claire?"

"Good," I replied, unable to keep myself from peeking into the apartment. No one was behind him today. I'd gathered that the other tenant was in the bedroom still, unable to follow Walter to continue whatever he had left behind in the bedroom. "I was just checking on you to make sure that you know about the storm coming." The lie came so easily when there was a pretense of care behind it.

"Oh yes, we've just started seeing the warnings. When national news warns about the weather you'd best take heed."

"We've got almost a week so you should have plenty of time, but if there's anything you guys need just feel free to let me know."

He smiled with such pleasantness that I was sure that he was warming up to me. "Thank you, Claire."

"He's gonna be all right?" I asked, pointing in the direction that the bedrooms would be. Smooth Claire, very smooth.

"Yes, he's getting around much better lately."

"What happened to him? If you don't mind me asking?"

His smile faded, however, he gave no indication that he determined my inquiry to be distasteful, but he did appear to be struggling with a response. With much care and thought he said, "He was injured while working. He was out of the country." He nodded to himself sadly, quickly adding, "Almost died before anyone even found him really." His tone had now become full of pride, although a bit of remorse still tinged his voice as he remembered something that I was sure he was not willing to tell me of his roommate from years long gone. "Dr. Connor was an ambitious man with high hopes for the world, but with such ambition comes a price."

I nervously began locking and unlocking my fingers. "I'm so sorry." I lowered my voice, hoping that it would help Walter feel more comfortable with divulging more. "Was it a fire? I saw the burns."

He glanced back quickly, surprising me as he stepped over the threshold which prompted me to step back, and he slowly drew the door until it was almost shut. "I'm not at liberty to discuss his accident, but I can say with utmost certainty that if I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

So badly, I wanted to push the envelope and say, "Try me." It would have been a mistake that I was sure that Walter would report back to his charge, and so I merely said, "I believe in a lot of things now that I never did before."

He gave a short laugh and reached back for the doorknob. Before he completely turned though, he stopped, turning his head back in my direction. "You know, Claire…" His pause almost seemed like an eternity. "The walls are thick, but I gather that you can hear much of Scott's tantrums even still. This move has been hard on him." He seemed regretful of that, licking his thin, pale lips as he looked to the floor. "I think he'd want you to know that he'd rather you not even know he's here, or that he exists. I try to keep him mellow. At ease… but I can't expect so much of him. He wanted to come here to evade notice because of what he believes he's become."

Feeling horrible, I started to say, "I'm so sorry-"

"His physical therapy has been strenuous, but he's determined to at least be walking by New Year's. Please, bear with us for that long. He's hoping to live unassisted by autumn of next year."

"Of course," I whispered, feeling ashamed that I had even attempted to continue prying. I'd seen the result of his unfortunate accident, or at least part of it. Even though it was killing me to not know what had happened, I'd at least try to keep my snooping subtle. After all, feigning normalcy was the most normal thing I could do.

"He's too strong for his own good." Once again, he turned to signal the end of the conversation, this time, meaning it. "You have a good evening, dear heart."

As the door closed in my face, I felt myself freeze up, lips slightly parted. My past was determined to consume me, entirely.

A/N: I wanted the chapter to be longer, but if I try to make 8-10 pages it's gonna end up being like 15 and taking about a damned month. Also, without going that far this was the only way to leave you hanging somehow.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Updates for everything are coming more slowly. Things happen in life that really suck, and my depression is at an all-time high. Being an adult is the worst thing to ever happen to anyone, but I'm trying to keep it pushing. However, I'm pretty sure that this chapter is the one that many of you that read this story have been waiting for.

Day 5

Even though the sky had begun to darken, I continued to pick up things from stores and attempted to get back into the groove of civilian life. This was impossible though. I had become suspicious of everything and everyone at this point, especially after I remembered my words to Joe. Leon was probably right, but was I ever the woman to take another person's word as gospel? If he wasn't going to help me then I would find my own reassurance to share with Joe. If that meant taking the risk of heading into the less-occupied part of town then I would. I was pretty sure that the main thing that I needed to get into the dump mentioned on the flyer was my skin color. Blue eyes apparently wouldn't hurt either.

I'd worn my biker apparel, figuring that it would be an even greater aid in portraying that I was fully capable of being there, even though mentally, I was not. As I pulled up to the bar that was poorly hinted at in the not-so-subtle flyer that decorated a heap of trash downtown I steeled myself. I gripped my steering wheel, telling myself that I could handle being around these people for twenty minutes. So far, I'd seen a few of the stereotypes proudly enter the establishment that looked barely operational, –for the sake of keeping away what they constituted as undesirable- but also a few college students went in. A brunette woman with hair just below her shoulders opened the door for herself, her suiter following close behind her, both of them laughing as they disappeared into the darkness inside. People like them laughed? God, I hoped for the sake of my professional and personal reputation that no one saw me go inside.

You can turn back. You can.

No, I can't. Leon had an arsenal of information at his fingertips, but he was so concerned with something that I wanted to move past that he couldn't even make a simple call for me. He probably thought that he was doing me a favor by treating it as trivial, but with the anniversary of Spencer's passing and Joe's habit for seeing Umbrella everywhere, it was an obligation to look into every possibility. This town was a hotspot for Raccoon City survivors, and my landlord was here far more than me. Also, Cyrus was most certainly playing games so I'd follow this rabbit hole to the end if I had to, to pass his little test.

The rain had started, lightly falling, but constant. It was so constant that puddles had become larger pools, the once identifiable borders between bodies of water and typically dry land had disappeared. There was no better time than now to check this place out and confirm what Leon had told me. Joe didn't say something about the cultists for nothing. Other than his paranoia that is. I walked to the building, a small space that used to be a pool hall a few years ago. I remembered the local college students throwing a fit when the place changed hands after the owner died. I don't even think that they intended to attract this new crowd, but business was business, and their money spent the same wherever they took it.

There was no need for an umbrella right now, and so I simply ducked my head slightly as I walked to keep the rain out of my eyes. Okay, twenty minutes should suffice, I said to myself. When I reached the glass door it read Herschel's Haunt in a dirty, white cursive font. The hours varied based on the night, as it was closed on Sunday and Monday, not that I needed to know that. A barely lit open sign hung in a window to the right, and beyond the glass, I couldn't make out much due to the darkness. I took a deep breath before entering, expecting a rush of cigarette smoke to assault me as soon as the door opened. It was stale.

Rock music that I'd never heard before floated toward me, the volume just right so that patrons wouldn't be screaming at one another. The darkness of the foyer was unsettling, and the only thing that managed to offer any light was from what appeared to be from black light that shone from around the corner. Great, I thought as I rolled my eyes. This would be one of those places.

A large bald man that towered over me despite being seated behind a counter beckoned me over to him. "Let me see some ID sweets," he said a bit too loud.

After he'd somehow determined in the dark that I was legal, he handed it back to me and pointed me to the back.

There was no apprehension in my walk. No one needed to think that I was scoping the place out, even though I was. Thankfully the place wasn't completely dependent on black lights as a primary source of illumination. A few dim lights hung quite low over the pool tables that were free, all except two at the back. The occupants of those seemed more interested in trying to convince trashy blondes in summer, denim shorts to leave with them. The middle of the floor was clear of patrons, leaving barstools and tables abandoned as it seemed that most of the customers preferred the coziness of corners. Though this place should have been a safe space for the more questionable denizens of Aurora, they seemed to still prefer to talk amongst themselves in privacy.

Three lost souls were spaced out at the bar that extended pretty much the entire left side of the establishment, nursing glasses of what was more than likely whiskey. Rather than sit between them I took a spot on the end.

Almost immediately, a skinny bartender that seemed to not have showered or slept in two or three days came over. "What can I get for you?" He wiped down the bar in front of me, but he didn't smile.

"Blue Moon." I didn't really care.

He gave a smirk as he scoffed at my choice, disappearing briefly before returning with an uncapped bottle.

I gave no thanks as he didn't seem to find verbal communication to be essential in this transaction. After taking a swig he seemed satisfied enough to head back over to the other end. Looking up, I saw four televisions, one on a channel that specialized in propaganda news, sports, and a primetime show. There were several selections of alcohol against the wall, as was expected, but I noted that a lot of it consisted of vodka. I was pretty sure that I saw a bottle of Ivanabitch squeezed in there. I took another chug of the bitter beer, using this time to take in as much of the dimly-lit bar as I could. There were a few jerseys on the wall that belonged to local athletes, license plates, laminated news clipping about celebrities, and signatures next to recent Polaroids.

As I attempted to focus in on faces, I heard a stool next to me being slid out. A hulking man with a cleanly-shaved head in a black tee and shades sat next to me. While he adjusted himself against the counter he looked me up and down.

This only made me mask taking a deep breath by taking a long swallow of my beer, pretending to watch the news channel and read the captions.

"Haven't seen you here before." His voice was deep and confident as he spat out the typical line. Then, in a boom, he shouted down to the other end, "Hey, Tom! Get me a glass of Fireball!"

I almost flinched. "I've never been here before."

"Well, you should have." His thin lips curled back in a creepy grin, revealing a mouth of what I believed to be dentures that he'd had to prematurely acquire in his life. "You'd make the prettiest babies," he whispered, unabashedly.

His statement made my skin crawl, but I merely gulped down more of my beer. "So, how come I've never heard of this place?" I kept my eyes on the television, hearing him straighten up in his stool as Tom dropped off his drink.

With a sigh, he said, "Probably 'cause those fuckin' bozos keep takin' down the flyers. Everybody else gets to have their space, why the hell can't we?" He sounded agitated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him tilting his head back as he took a swallow of his drink. With a sated sigh, he set the glass back down.

"And who would 'those fuckin' bozos be?'" I asked with the slightest tone of mockery.

"Who do you think? The sissies! The snowflakes! The fuckin' illegals. And all the goddamn government leeches."

It took everything in me not to respond in the way that I typically would. To counter him I asked, "So what are you gonna do about it?"

With a smirk that was somewhat of disbelief and defeat, he stood up from his stool and stepped back from the bar. "That's what friends are for." He finished off his glass of liquor, almost slamming it down on the counter before walking away. To where I didn't care.

I continued to drink my beer in silence. This place was seeming just as it was presented. As I reached the bottom of my bottle, growing sick of the hateful whispers surrounding me now, I was almost ready to call my time here. This had to be why people did meth.

Almost done with my last swallow, I heard a voice from behind me say to Tom, "I'm buying the lady's next beer." Before I could turn to identify who it was, he'd taken the seat that the pig from before had been in. I had no desire to make friends with anyone else here, but when Tom sat out another uncapped bottle for me I had no choice to acknowledge him. I smiled appreciatively at the man that appeared to possess at least a modicum of charm. His skin was so bronze that I wondered how he was in here with no issue, but perhaps it was because it was obvious that he'd been bathed in sunlight. His lips were plump and smooth, a perfect pout. His hair was as black as coal, fuller than mine, and glossier than I'd been able to achieve from a trip to the salon. It was parted down the center, his bangs slightly shorter and clinging to the rest of it that covered the top of the nape of his neck. He was gorgeous.

With a set of clear, twinkling, blue eyes he introduced himself. "I'm Drake."

More like Prince Eric, I thought to myself. "I'm Claire," I said instead, pulling the beer he'd just ordered back towards me.

"Don't let Vaughn over there try to scare you off from this place." Drake looked back to Tom. "Hey man, get me my usual."

"I don't think this is my kind of place anyway," I admitted, taking a drink from the new bottle.

"He's just scared of change." When a glass of brown liquid was placed in front of him he looked into the bartender's eyes before saying with certainty, "They all are."

I found myself smirking at his bold statement and the fact that Tom didn't dare say anything to him. "So where are you from Drake?"

He had some of his mystery drink. "Everywhere. You?"

"Everywhere." I was still smirking. Wait, was I flirting?

This caused him to smirk as well. "No, seriously. I feel like I know you." With a skeptical expression, he let his eyes rove up and down.

"Drake from Everywhere," I mused, playing with the bottle of beer. It felt odd sitting in a bar with a handsome stranger playing this weird game that would end in him failing to get my number. At the same time though, it felt good. It felt normal. "You don't seem like the type of guy they like in here."

He scooted over in his stool, bringing himself closer to me, giving me the chance to breathe in the subtle hint of Versace cologne that he knew better than to douse himself in. "What type do I seem like?" After that question left his incredibly perfect lips, he began shrugging off his black jacket, revealing a black tee that barely covered an impressive set of arms that were just as bronze as his face.

I felt a fluttering that started a bit lower in my abdomen than what I was used to, immediately chastising myself. Staring down at my fingers, wet with the sweat from my bottle of beer, I took in a deep breath as I prepared to disappoint him. I couldn't play this game. "I have a boyfriend."

"Claire," he started with a single laugh, "it's a simple question." He combed back his bangs with his fingers, but a few strands rebelliously fell back forward to lightly kiss his forehead, free of wrinkles and even pores. Fuck. This. Guy.

"How do I answer that question without being offensive to the people here?" I looked into his eyes that seemed to be searching my own for something unknown.

"Do you think they care about who they offend?"

My eyes wandered back to one of his arms, and I saw the bottom of a tattoo. Without thinking, I'd reached over to pull up the sleeve of his shirt pinching the fabric between my thumb and index finger, revealing a red bow, undrawn. "What's this?"

Somehow, I could see red beneath the even tone of his cheeks as he blushed. "It's not finished yet." His hand surrounded mine, pulling it down from the fabric, but allowing me to feel the smooth skin of his arm as he dragged downward. "I believe in oneness. I'm nothing like the others here."

Ashamed, I drew back. "Why are you here then?"

Unphased by my change in mood, he turned his body back towards the bar, taking up his glass once more. "I imagine I'm here for the same reason that you are. We all want answers. We all want to help. Maybe I'm where I need to be right now. Maybe you need me to help you."

Right on time, my phone began vibrating and flashing. The display said, Tim. Without excusing myself I unlocked the phone to see the text.

The gray text bubble read, "What are you up to babe?"

That was a marvelous question. "Thanks for the beer." I stood up from the stool, reaching into my back pocket for a bill to at least pay for the first one. I was happier to get that message than I'd like to admit right now.

This time, his hand shot out to take hold of my arm. "It's all on me."

Grateful, I picked up the bottle one last time, holding it out towards him.

He clinked his glass to mine, staring at me as we both downed what was left of our drinks. "Hopefully I see you around, Claire from Everywhere." He got to his feet, putting his jacket back on as he stood mere inches away from me. He hovered there for a moment, a good eight inches above me as he popped his collar, unintentionally causing me to once more breathe in his cologne.

I don't think I'd ever wanted someone immediately at the moment until now. Perhaps it was his unassuming demeanor. He'd yet to try to get me to put his number in my phone.

"Redfield," I almost whispered.

"Anastas," he responded. "Hopefully I'll see you again." With that same smirk from earlier, he turned on his heel and left.

I think I was starting to finally get used to normal again…

* * *

Day 9

There was a very strange wind blowing throughout the town. Howling. Shrieking. The structure groaned as it was pelted with large gusts that were so strong that I could hear big wheels and basketball goals being knocked over. Sometimes it sounded like machinery, shrill and loud, but whenever I peeked outside the window I saw nothing but leaves being tossed through the air along with random bits of litter. This storm would be big, and this was a sheer courtesy call from nature. I heard a random knock that could've been either been made by nothing but the wind or by my mysterious neighbors who had yet to properly introduce themselves. Nothing would come of it, at this point I was certain.

I heard more knocks, but this time, they were at my door, or so I thought. I looked down at my phone, hoping to see an update from Tim, but no notification appeared. My worry had completely overshadowed my usual curiosity; there was never a time that I wasn't suspicious of visitors. This was the storm of the year. It seemed that the storm was bringing me surprises though. I never expected that Walter would come knocking on my door; I'd always been the one to initiate conversations with one of my two new neighbors. Honestly, I'd accepted that as the routine at this point: I hear something weird so I go over to thinly veil my investigation as a concern. What was more unexpected was his request that I keep his apartment key while he made a quick run to the store.

"I should only be gone forty minutes at the most," he assured me, following it up with an apparent warning. "Do not enter the apartment unless it is an emergency."

"How will I know if there's an emergency?" It was a valid question. Why would I be given a key if he didn't want me entering?

"Scott will let you know if there's one. He may not be able to walk, but by God can he shout." He laughed nervously. A serious stare suddenly fell upon his face, taking over the previously lighthearted expression. "I wouldn't be braving the storm if this wasn't a necessary run. You understand?"

"Yeah." My response was one of absentmindedness. Whatever you say, I said to myself.

With nothing more than a nod, he turned to leave, disappearing behind the stairwell door.

Yeah, whatever you say.

That all seemed like forever ago and the storm was getting worse. The giant drops of rain were the only constant in the complex when the electricity began to surge, causing the lights to flicker. The only thing that could have been keeping them on at that time was prayer because the way that the wind blew outside made me believe that it was only a matter of time before one of the wires snapped. Five hours. It had been raining for five hours. That wasn't including all of the rain that we had gotten the previous four days. Now, it had gotten even heavier along with the wind that had knocked down the power lines, leaving me in darkness.

Luckily, it was a nice temperature outside, keeping it comfortable in my apartment. This comfort, however, did not extend to my internal peace as it had also been five hours since Walter had left. I'd gone outside an hour ago to check on the roads, only to find that the water was creeping closer and closer to the complex. The slight slope of the area gave us an advantage during these freak storms, but I feared for the rest of Aurora right now. My phone was set to Low Power Mode, my background apps shut down, and I set it to Do Not Disturb. If Tim called, I'd get it. I needed to save juice; I only had one backup charger at the apartment.

Walter had left me the key to his apartment in case things got even worse, like, evacuation worse, but how would I know if Scott needed anything? Five hours was a long time for a wheelchair-bound man to be left unsupervised in the dark. I stared at the key that was only visible with the aid of the flickering candle, and I tried my hardest to calm my mind. You're just being nosey, I told myself. The ring of my phone interrupted my calming mantra, and I snatched it up from the coffee table with an unnecessary swiftness. Tim. I accepted the call and brought the phone to my ear. "Tim?"

"Are you ok?"

I fell back into the sofa at his question. I was somewhere safe while he was away from home, not knowing what he'd return to. A tornado had been spotted and I knew that it had pulled a few roofs off of businesses. Tim could've been anywhere, he could've been calling from a hospital pretending to be fine... it was the kind of person that he was. "Tim, thank God you're alive!" I leaned forward and rested my elbows against my knees, rubbing my eyes with my free hand.

"Of course I am," he said assuredly. "It's just raining so badly here."

"Where are you?"

"At the Hilton, down from the courthouse. It was like the air was whited out on the way over. The firm is paying for our stay. Claire..." he trailed off, worrying me with what he'd say next. "I've never walked through flood water, and I hope I never have to again. It's like I can't get warm from my knees on down."

"Oh my God," was all I could say.

"Do we have power at home?"

"No. It went off five hours ago."

With a nervous chuckle, he said, "I hope you've been managing to stay off of social media."

I had, except for the one time that I finally checked IG for one Drake Anastas… I shook that thought away. "Of course."

"Has anyone needed anything?"

Our neighbors typically had no issue asking for favors in the past, but to my surprise, there was only one that had a request. I should've been trying to make this call short but instead, I chose to bring up Walter coming over to ask me to keep an eye on things by leaving me his keys. "Actually, Walter came over before the power went out. He said he was going to the store but that was hours ago. He left me his keys in case Scott needed anything."

"Is he okay?"

I turned my head, the textured wall appearing in my peripheral. "I guess." I felt a worry creeping over me as I realized how unnervingly quiet it had been next door for the entire five hours. Not a sound. Not a phone call. Nothing. "I'm more worried about Walter."

"There's nothing you can do about that," he said gently. "Maybe he had to take shelter somewhere. I haven't heard about any fatalities or anything. If I were you I'd be more worried about the guy that can't walk."

"Walter said not to go over there unless I heard something." I sounded nervous myself now.

"Maybe you should go knock. From the way you described him, sounds like the guy may need more help than he can provide for himself." Before I could respond, he quickly said, "Hey, I have to email my boss some documents. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Of course," I replied, barely above a whisper. As we said goodbye I looked at the keys again, curious, worried, and I could no longer hold back from swiping them up from the coffee table. As I exited my apartment with a flashlight in tow, I felt something telling me to go back inside. The backup generators kept the hallways dimly lit, allowing me to find the door with ease. Nothing was wrong, but if I entered that doorway, plenty could go wrong. Scott just wanted his privacy. What if something had gone wrong though? That thought was louder than any other at this moment.

I used my best cop knock. "Mr. Connor?" Nothing. "I'm Claire Redfield, I live next door!" Silence was the continued response. This was not good for a man in his condition. "Walter gave me the keys in case I needed to check on you!" Finally, I thought I heard something, maybe cardboard falling to the floor. "Are you okay?" What if he'd fallen and couldn't call out for help? "Mr. Connor, if you're okay let me know! If not, I'm coming in!"

1… 2... 3… 4…

I didn't get to five before the first key was in the bottom lock. Slowly, I turned it, slightly afraid to do the same to the top. I actually couldn't remember doing it. My hand lingered on the knob for a moment, slowly twisting my wrist, frozen as I reminded myself to open the door. As I stepped over the threshold, I was engulfed in darkness, met by nothing but the rumble of thunder outside. "Mr. Connor?" I flicked on the flashlight, closing the door behind me. I was already coming in without invitation so leaving it open to anyone would just be rude. As I raised the light to illuminate the area, it quickly shined over the wheels of a wheelchair, but just as it revealed the face of my hooded neighbor, I heard the distinct sound of the safety of a gun click.

I was stuck, held in place by the shock that refused to release me. Perhaps it was denial. Could I be seeing what I was seeing? That ghostly, white pallor, stained by those impossible burns were only possible because of who they marred. A ghost. A nightmare. The bane of my existence, the attempted murderer of my brother, and the real-life boogeyman had me exactly where he needed me.

The biggest threat to me at this moment was that I was mentally unprepared to properly formulate a plan of escape. I just didn't expect my life to be taken today. I didn't expect a dead man to rise from the grave once again. I didn't expect Albert Wesker to really have 9 lives.

"You're dead," I barely got out.

"And you're not far behind." If I'd doubted it was him, now I knew by the booming voice, accented with a dialect that was unknown to all who had spoken with him.

His gaunt face was haloed by the gray hood of his jacket, his cheeks impossibly sunken. Chapped lips were set in a straight line, his brow not furrowed, but the gun in his lap said everything that his face could not. His eyes, previously a furiously blazing red and orange were now blue and dull, unshielded as they no longer had any secret to be kept. Was I really seeing him? In a hoodie, in a wheelchair, without his shades? Could this have been some other villain I'd crossed in my time with the company? No, it was him.

I could very clearly make him out beneath the purplish circles that surrounded his eyes, beneath his tired expression and that weary body. It was Albert Wesker. "How?" I asked loudly, knowing that I did not want the neighbors to place themselves in this.

"A stupid question for a silly, little girl." He suddenly leaned forward, falling into one of those coughing fits that I'd heard Scott Connor go into before.

Remembering my training and the paranoia that came with it, I quickly reached for the 9 that I'd holstered just before leaving my apartment. Instead of taking aim where there could be no heart beating, I aimed for his head, but for some reason, I didn't pull the trigger.

When he'd regained his composure he merely took aim once more, making me realize how stupid I really was to believe that he wouldn't be willing to take me out with him. Or was I purely brave enough to allow myself to go as well? With a single, bitter laugh he spat, "Killed by Redfield's little sister." Unexpectedly, he lowered the gun again, this time discharging it before setting it on his lap.

Refusing to let confusion settle, I felt my mouth twisting into a snarl, remembering every news report that had been made about him since he'd allegedly been dispatched of. I remembered the nightmares that were based on very real events that he'd caused me to endure, and I remembered the moment that he almost killed my brother with his bare hands. Pressure was now being applied to the trigger. "You have no idea how much I hate you," I ground out.

Another bitter chuckle left him and he fought back another coughing fit. "So what good will killing me do for you?" he asked, the fire that had seemed to dim in him was returning. Did he truly live off of the world's disdain for him?

With my resolve now shaky, crippled by his switch from defeat to defiance, I replied, "I'd be doing the world plenty of good."

"You're a smart girl," he purred, his lips being tugged to one side of his face with a grin. "The only person that could keep a reemergence of bio-weaponry in check wouldn't be good for this world."

His sardonicism was enough for me to salvage my resolve. "I'm smarter than you think." I placed my other hand on the handle of my gun, bracing myself for the recoil.

"But you're not as perceptive as you thought. Otherwise, you'd know that whenever you leave, someone enters your apartment."

My eyes shot open, and I lowered my weapon. "What are you talking about?" If this was a trick, what was the point? Shoot him. That command manifested as a scream within my own mind, but then, a more calm voice said to me, "Dr. Cyrus." None of this could have been a coincidence. I refused to believe that.

Unaware of the internal battle that I was losing, he said, "This storm was an opportune time for someone to make their way into your apartment –once again- unbeknownst to you. In a way, my being here may have saved your life. Whoever it is could have had their way with you." The last bit was voiced as an afterthought, however, I was sure that he expected some form of gratification even though I had no proof of any of what he had just said.

"Say I believe you… why are you here? You could've gone anywhere in the world, but you chose Aurora?"

"In case you haven't noticed, this is a hot spot for you resettled survivors. It's far too obvious."

This can't be real, I chanted to myself. Just as I set my mouth to ask another question, we both heard it, the sound of my door unlocking. How? I looked back to the door, daring to take my eyes off of him for one second. When I turned back around, I saw him raise his finger to his mouth, warning me to remain silent. As waited, it seemed that neither of us was breathing. We'd been waiting for what felt like half an hour, but I knew better than that. As I heard the heavy door closing, the locks turning over with what seemed a deliberate gentleness, I felt my body turning towards the door.

The heavy footfall sounded closer as we both stared at the light that managed to illuminate the small crack between the bottom of the door and floor. With my weapon now pointed at the door, I reminded myself to breathe. Two shadows of what I guessed to be shoes interrupted the single strip of light, and I prepared for the worse. Suddenly, the shadows disappeared and the footsteps were sounding farther away.

Looking back to Wesker, I was met with an I-told-you-so gaze that I wished I hadn't seen. "I'll be back," I almost whispered, disappointing myself in so many ways. He knew something. Whatever was going on had been for a while, and I would get answers. The hallway was clear, not a soul in sight, not a wet footprint leaving any trail. Urgently, I unlocked the door, my flashlight at the ready. Before entering, I checked both ends of the hallway once more, swallowing a lump that had to have just formed.

A prolonged flash of lightning illuminated the front room for about three seconds, showing me that no one was there. Unsatisfied, I secured every lock behind me before almost angrily scouting my own home for intruders. All bedrooms were clear, all bathrooms were empty, and all closets were barely filled with items for storage never mind a person. This can't be real, I told myself, again and again, growing angrier and more confused. Before I could begin sobbing myself into a corner I knew that I needed to make sure that he'd been real. As I took a step towards my front door I saw those shadows again, once more interrupting the only consistent source of light. This was all real.

A/N: So, I knew I needed to get to this part of the story because taking too long can hurt an audience's interest. The king of Resident Evil has arrived! He's not so dead after all, not in spirit nor body it seems. Although, I don't think he appreciates her turning a line of Chris' on him. Hmm. I needed his return to not be so insanely grand because there are obviously other things happening in Aurora, and I knew he probably wouldn't appreciate being considered a drop in a bucket, but Wesker honey, you're a drop in a bucket. Don't be afraid to leave a review and let me know what y'all think of this story! I see y'all adding it to the alerts ;)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Pretty quick for me to update, but I have found out that I can haz MS Word on my phone -I discovered this while trying to view what I'd written by emailing it to myself- for free. At first, I wasn't too geeked, but then I said, "If I can get Grammarly as well, we're onto something." Here we are! I can write anywhere now! I also slightly updated chapters five and six of Optio. With so much free time I honestly should have updated the whole story by now as well as given a proper update for a new chapter. We're getting there though!

I also want to thank the readers. I'm getting back on track and determined to reach a point in my life in which I will never be left in such a vulnerable position again. I'm thinking on Optio and I'm working hard to connect the dots. Lucky for the readers I have some ideas regarding that story.

Day 9

Walter? I wondered to myself as I crossed the room slowly, weapon still at the ready. I hoped that it was him, it had to be. As I prepared to take a look out of the peephole, whoever it was knocked once more, louder, more urgently.

"Claire? Are you in there?"

I almost collapsed upon hearing Leon's voice. With weak legs, I hurried to the door, carefully dropping my gun off in a kitchen drawer. He'd come somehow, appearing in my doorway with plastic bags of food and a six pack of beer. I wanted to pull him into the tightest embrace that I could manage, but instead, I attempted to put on a brave face as I ushered him in. Thunder continued to boom outside, rain still pelting the structure mercilessly, and I wonder how he'd managed to get there.

As I led him to the couch where it was better lit thanks to the candles, I asked, "Is it not flooding?"

"Downtown." He showed no sign of noticing my edginess.

"Still, it was dicey driving over here."

My scolding didn't seem to affect him as he plopped down next to me. "I have a Land Rover." Though it was courtesy of his job, it didn't make me feel better that he'd come out during the storm of the year. "Tell me you've got a gas stove," he continued, unfazed. "I know they say non-perishables and food that doesn't need to be cooked, but I've got rice, Ramen, and I may or may not have bought shit to make tacos with."

As I felt an irresistible smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, I could only ask, "Where's your jacket?"

"I left it in the stairwell, mom." Suddenly, he was smiling back at me, and I'd forgotten that I was upset with him. I'd forgotten about almost everything actually. Time stopped existing. The storm, as far as I knew, had ceased. As we prepared food by candlelight and drank beers -with no qualm from me- I felt at ease. So at ease, that when I remembered what I'd seen next door, asked myself how I could feel that I deserved to sit here with this man that was just trying to help me make the best of everything. Of course, it was nibbling at my brain, but the nervousness that I should have felt about the secret next door was lost along with the fear of an intruder. Why was I not telling him about… him? Dr. Cyrus' warning to me had become a true concern of mine now: Hero Syndrome.

"Leon?"

Mouth full of beer, he raised his brows.

"You took profiling, right? Profile me." Cyrus didn't know me. Leon did. I wasn't keeping that monster a secret from him because of some brand new label that shrinks slapped on people that they couldn't categorize. No. I just needed to find out what was going on myself.

"I didn't really pay attention; I took it for the grants," he admitted, blatantly.

For a moment I just stared down at the crumbs left on my paper plate. I didn't divulge the content of my sessions to anyone, but I felt that the situation that was waiting for me just next door required a bit of advice. "Dr. Cyrus seems to think that I have a need to save people. Hero Syndrome... towards Chris. And possibly broadened now that I'm with the company. Do you think that I need to be the savior?" I never saw myself as needing to save anyone. My attempts to save my brother in the past had been acts that any other able sibling would have committed. Everyone else that I'd met on the way never got that same treatment, and now it was merely my job to save the world.

As he mulled over the answer, I became uneasy, almost tempted to blurt out that Albert Wesker was next door just to prove them all wrong. "I think you're protective. But not pathologically."

Had it not been so dark, I was sure that he would have seen me visibly releasing my bated breath.

"Look, your reasons for doing this are way more pure than mine. If anyone's a problem, it's not you." Leon's words were not meant to exalt me through self-deprecation. Had he and Sherry not been taken into federal custody after the events of Raccoon City, I had strongly felt that he would have gone to the other side of the world and never thought of taking on any other authoritative occupation. This fight wasn't for him, no matter how much of the world was in danger.

Without a second thought, I threw myself onto him, pulling him into a warm embrace, the image of Wesker still back there, tapping away at my mind. I couldn't send him away though, it would look too weird. So I told him that I would be checking on the previously, mysterious neighbor, sure to lock the door as soon as I went back inside just in case my friend had become just as curious as I foolishly had. "Are you okay in here?" I asked the darkness, knowing that he was sitting in the front room still, just like a psycho.

"I take it that you have company?" he asked, ignoring my question completely. He'd almost been burnt to a crisp, so I didn't expect that he'd answer honestly.

"It's Leon." I imagined that he'd tensed at that.

"So… I suppose that at this moment I decide whether or not to go out in a blaze of glory… again, or to bow out graciously." This was the most pathetic I'd ever heard him, and though I had not been there during his apparent demise, I imagined that he'd sounded more pathetic now than he did then. Before, he was desperate, and desperate equated to fire, but defeat was the exact opposite.

"I'm not telling him. Yet."

"Why?" the voice floated to me, almost pleasantly. In the dark, I could appreciate it in the way that I had once before. It was in the RPD, and he'd been hidden by the walls of his office, but I knew it was him. I remember thinking of how professional he sounded, how beautiful it was. God, now was not the time to reminisce of innocence I'd ignorantly placed upon him all due to his voice.

His question remained, hanging in the air, waiting for me to respond. "Something's going on," I said simply. "I think you know what."

He gave a, "Hmm," and I figured that my response sufficed. Whoever had entered my apartment could have been someone that he'd sent, and his detainment could have resulted in them abandoning any and all mercy they may have had for me. I had faith that I was destined to be killed; I had never even realized that someone else had been entering my home. This person was skilled.

Once more, I asked him if he was okay. I wasn't sure when I'd returned. With his assurance, I left him there, alone, in the dark, sure to lock his door behind me. I'd lingered there for a while, surprisingly hearing him roll over, turning over every lock on the inside, and I swore that I also heard a weapon being loaded. Was it for me, or had the intruder come for us both?

When I was back with Leon, I completely lied, pretending that I'd just gone over to be a Good Samaritan, checking on a wheelchair-bound neighbor that assured me that he was fine. My attempts to shut down any conversation about it probably would have become noticeable had Leon continued to press me for more information. Then, in what at first seemed like a lucky stroke of fate, my phone lit up.

Abruptly, the brunet threw himself back against the seat, almost angrily taking a swig of his beer. "Is that Tim?" Now I was beginning to regret allowing him to drink. Was he jealous? Couldn't be. It had to be him being protective.

It was an IG alert. "Anastas_of_Greece sent you a DM." Thankfully, my body was at an angle to Leon's. Once I'd lifted the phone, he was unable to see, but why was I hiding this from him? Probably because you have no business DM'ing a guy who you met in a bar, I chided myself.

 _I see you popped up in my suggestions_ , he'd typed, followed by a winking emoji. Damned technology.

Figuring that I should answer Leon, I lied; the truth would have been worse to deal with than this. "Yeah, he's just checking on me." I typed back, _Maybe we have friends in common._

Leon was silent as he pulled out his phone, more than likely pretending to have received a notification himself.

 _Nope._ The response was quick.

 _It's the government._ This sentiment echoed those of the average American that found themselves on a list of possible friends due to being in proximity of another person. So far, it seemed like a legit observation.

 _Lol._ Text bubbles followed. _How you holding up during this storm?_

I glanced at Leon, still pretending to be checking his phone. I wanted to jokingly remind him, "No girls ever call you except Hunnigan." Instead, I focused on finishing up my current conversation as I didn't think he was in the mood to take a joke of that nature. _Power's out, but an awesome friend managed to get over and bring better food than what I had. You?_ That was not how you finish a conversation, and I was sure that Leon would have appreciated hearing me refer to him as an "awesome friend." That part was for me though, to make myself feel better about all of the lies I found myself wrapping myself up in.

 _Neighborhood's flooded. Water is literally three inches from getting in the back, but I still have power and Wi-Fi._ He followed this up with an exasperated emoji and an excited emoji right after. _Damn. You could've come over here. Assuming your boyfriend would've been cool with it._ He sent a set of eyes. Very smooth, Drake, tempting me with the luxuries that I didn't currently have and blaming my boyfriend for why I couldn't have them.

 _You're lucky._ I should've ended it there, but I went on to tack on more. _My boyfriend's stuck downtown. He was at work during the flood._ Before we could continue this game that should have been off-limits, decided to really end the conversation. _Hey, I'll get at you later. I'm running on limited battery life._

He sent a thumbs up, and I started to feel guilty that I had really meant that I'd message him again. What the hell was wrong with me tonight?

Like a guilty person, I set my phone back on the table face down. "Who's messaging you?" I asked sweetly, smirking at my friend.

His demeanor had suddenly shifted, and he set his phone down as well, but like an innocent man, he'd done so with its face up. "Hunnigan was just reminding me to actually vacation."

I almost laughed. Even his lies were innocent. As the night and the storm went on we just talked and it felt like the first time in a while that I had been able to do that with someone that I didn't work with. We talked the way that Tim and I used to talk, about anything and everything that we could. Not once did either of us mention work, not even when the subjects involved Chris or Jill. Then, it seemed like less than an hour later –though it had been much longer- the lights flickered back on. Electronics whirred and powered up, and sudden brightness caused us to shield our tired light-deprived eyes.

"Thank God. Is it still raining?" I asked.

He checked outside. "It's light. Perfect time for me to get back."

"What?" The disappointment in my voice was palpable.

"Yeah. I didn't bring any clothes and I'm sure that Tim wouldn't appreciate coming home to see that I've been here all night."

Maybe he would, I thought, remembering how warm and receptive he'd always been to Leon. Still, he was right. I should have felt some semblance of respect for Tim. Before he left, I hugged him again, far too tightly for him to be able to pull back and stare at me with those gray eyes of concern and some form of affection.

"If it looks like it's getting bad again, I'm coming to get you," he whispered.

The water would keep rising, that of which I was sure, but the storm itself was gone. Outside of the complex, I had no clue how it looked, but I was sure that I'd be getting photo messages from Chris and Leon about it. My brother was hellbent on getting me to lock myself up in a room and never come out, one way or another. As I watched Leon walk down the hall to the stairwell, I felt myself smiling at his own awkward smirk. As much as I wanted to linger on our time together, I knew that this new day had come ripe with new problems. My eyes wandered in the other direction, stopping on the door that came between me and my newest problem: Wesker.

* * *

He'd been hungry. A scheduled diet hung on the same stainless steel refrigerator door that was in my own apartment. It was a rigorous list that would have driven me to find a way to inject myself with donut filling. Over time, it appeared that the goal was to add weight to his feeble form, but since he was waiting, I decided to come back to that later and just get to his breakfast: three eggs, a side of fruit, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of orange juice. I just stood back, watching him as he struggled to come to terms with how he should attempt to pretend that he wasn't starving. Then I wondered, Did he really eat?

Instead, I asked, "When do you think that Walter will be back?" I'd expected a much different response than what I had received.

"Walter is more than likely dead," he said casually before taking a small bite of his eggs.

"Why would you say that?" My inquiry held a trace of horror that he would speak in such a way about the man who'd been aiding him this whole time.

"Walter was also a Raccoon City survivor. An Umbrella employee. The person –or people- stalking you were also after him. He'd intended to draw them out, but I have surmised that he never left the complex."

Leaning against the counter, staring down at the floor with my mouth agape, I almost felt my breath leaving me. "It's the cult."

He took a drink of his orange juice. "That is very possible."

My head snapped back up. "Leon told me that the cult wasn't here."

"Leon?" he asked with a scoff, and I swore that he almost choked on his drink. "You believe that Kennedy would know anything?"

Ignoring his jab at my friend's intelligence, I pushed myself forward. "I have to tell TerraSave!"

Dryly, he asked, "Why?" drawing the word out.

"Because-"

"You work for a glorified ethics counsel. This has nothing to do with TerraSave and everything to do with the United States government once again failing to tend to their backyard. On the contrary, it appears that they simply do not care." His tone had become one of disappointment, mixed in with annoyance. Not at me, but at the US. "This issue was seen as the Russians' problem and the fact that they haven't compiled a registry to track the individuals should tell you that their views on the subject mirror Mr. Kennedy's: it is of no consequence to them."

I tried to once more speak, only to be interrupted once again.

"Also, how would you present this case to them? Hmm?" The direction of his annoyance had turned to me now. "This continued encounter with me would be cruel on your end if you were to bring this to the attention of your superiors or Kennedy. You'd tell them that you had been living next door to an ex-Umbrella employee?" He paused. "How would you broach the subject of how you came to gather this intel? Where am I when you obtained this information?"

I had nothing. His words had knocked me back against the counter, and my head hung once more like a scolded dog's.

"If you're going to kill me, at least offer me a choice in my last meal."

With a sigh, I tore my eyes away from the floor and looked back to his, "I am not going to kill you."

Taking up his fork once more, he said to his plate, "Well you have to figure something out quick then."

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached the table in two strides and pulled his plate away from him, causing him to freeze just before he impaled another lump of scrambled eggs. "I don't know what's going on right now," I stated evenly, staring daggers into his cold, blue eyes. "I don't know who I can even trust right now. However, I do know that you're smarter than the average bear, and you're the only one that seemed to know anything about a cult in Aurora." I pushed the plain, porcelain plate back to its previous place in front of him. "After this, I don't know what happens to you, but the fact that you've been sulking in hoodies for the past year and a half tells me that you're not going to sacrifice yourself for some Brave New World again anytime soon."

Seemingly disgusted by such an indigestible truth, he set the fork down on the plate. "Once I regain my independence, I swear to you that I am finished."

"I have to ask why." Otherwise, it made no sense. An oath from a prolific traitor held little prestige. I'd read every one of his formerly redacted files: he'd betrayed a James Marcus, he'd betrayed S.T.A.R.S., he'd betrayed Umbrella and Spencer twice, and then there came the late Excella Gionne…

"Because insanity is committing the same action repetitiously with asinine expectations of a different result. At that moment, I'd fallen into a pit of insanity." He returned to his breakfast then, seeming as broken on the inside as he had on the outside. Though I wanted to further question him on his plans, I chose to leave it be. Eventually, he'd show me if he was as mad now as he had been then. Eventually.

* * *

With a slight feeling of annoyance, I rolled the wheelchair into the master bathroom, stopping just in front of the shower. For a moment I looked around, mentally questioning the next step; surely he wouldn't request that I bathe him? "What next?"

Without even turning his head in the slightest, he commanded, "Get me inside and I will handle it from there." The same level of vexation that I'd displayed, he made audible, as though he was not being aided when I could have left him to fend for himself and possibly rot.

Taking note of the full-sized towel draped on the rod, I silently said a thank you to whatever omnipotent being granted me with the fortune of providing a visual barrier for when I needed to return. I pulled the glass door of the shower open before leaning down slightly to prompt him to use me to gain his footing.

He let out a short grunt, a telltale sign that this was a strain on him that he would rather I remain unaware of. The weight of his body was alarming as I felt a pain quickly develop in the middle of my back, and now we both fought to keep from revealing our physical exertion to one another. When he was on his feet, he quickly took hold of the grab bar set into the shower, pulling himself over into the seat that was placed against the back wall. He did not instruct me to let go, however, I did so anyway when he began lowering himself.

"What else did you need?" The question was so odd. It sounded as though I genuinely cared about what Albert Wesker needed in order to have some level of comfort. He could have been my prisoner due to his current condition, but instead, I was engaging in the role of an active caregiver. Disgusting. Pathetic. Everything that he thought of me.

Sounding almost out of breath, he simply stated, "My shoes."

Refusing to kneel down on my knees for him, I bent over into the shower, prepared to roughly pull off the sneakers that required no strings (that in itself was far more bizarre than anything else when it came to Mr. Matrix).

He winced at my careless attempt.

Sighing, I began removing it properly, gently tugging at the heel. Hell, I even set them on the floor carefully after that. Without further stimulus, I then reached for a sock to remove it.

"No," he stated firmly, his eyes attempting to burn right through me despite no longer being ablaze. "I'm capable of that much." The following explanation was an attempt to counterpoise his previous demand. In this country, in this era, we said, "My apologies. What I meant was…"

Staring back into his now lifeless gaze, I told myself that this was the closest to an apology that he would probably get for his harsh manners. Rather than become offended, I straightened myself up, looking at the collection of items in the shower rack that hung against the large, square, gray tiles. A body sponge was hung from a hook at the bottom while the rack itself stored a bottle of shampoo and conditioner that I'd recognized as expensive, two different washes, and a plastic container with what appeared to be some form of bath salts inside. I guess those were being saved for when he could actually safely submerge himself.

Though I awaited instruction, he simply looked around the shower floor for a moment before beginning to slowly remove the pullover as though it pained him to do so. "Come back in twenty minutes."

Before he even got the hoodie over his head I had pushed the shower door closed enough to where he could reach the handle and turned on my heel to leave. Perhaps it was better that way. Truthfully, I was afraid of what I'd see beneath the hood. A scalp left with nothing but patches of hair? A scalp that was so scarred that no hair would ever grow again? Shutting the door behind me, I realized that I was also shutting the door on a part of me that I now couldn't believe existed. I couldn't take joy in his destruction in the way that I had imagined that I would. Saying and seeing were two different things.

Perhaps Chris could have relished in his demise, stripping him to bear witness to the shame of his humanity before putting him out of his misery, but I could not. I felt sick. Without a second thought about it, I swiftly crossed the bedroom to head back to the living area where I turned on the television to take my mind off of my growing conscience by utilizing background noise.

Five minutes of waiting felt like five hours of treason, but for some reason, I couldn't stop myself from continuing to add to my crimes. Popping my earbuds in, I went over to the sink to begin washing the dishes that had been used. I'd fed him. Claire, you fed him.

 _Am I out of my head? Am I out of my mind? If you only-_

"Hey, SARAH?" My virtual assistant had certainly earned her nickname.

My phone gave a chime in response.

"Next song." I must have given that command a thousand times before I reached an Avenged Sevenfold song. That would work. As I got to cleaning dishes that had been dirtied prior to Walter's disappearance, I began to think back to the unlikely moment that came when I helped him into the shower. Oddly enough, he had no identifiable scent, still barely human even though he seemed uncomfortably so from my point. Still, something so simple to us was so powerful. He was unidentifiable.

He barely resembled the man that all of us had known. His strength, his body, his resolve, all had become frail and withered. Had I taken his life, I would not have found any solace. I would have continued to lie awake at night, fearing the sleep that threatened to tug me away from my new reality of a safer world than the one that had fallen behind in a land of nightmares. His death would have brought me away from leave, away from the slice of normalcy that I'd procured for myself, and closer towards absolute destruction and despair. He'd burnt out, I'd burnt out. He was broken, I was broken. Yet, last night, when I'd found myself in his presence, I don't think I'd ever felt more alive.

As I ran the dry towel over a wet plate, I realized that his survival should have been the symbol of hope that I needed.

 _I'm fucked up. I'm black and blue. I'm built for it, all the abuse. I got secrets, that nobody, nobody, nobody knows. I'm good on, that pussy shit. I don't want what I can get._

"Shit," I hissed, quickly plucking a pod from one of my ears. I guess it had been twenty minutes; I heard a thudding against the wall that had to have been him, signaling that he'd finished. Without my previously feigned disinterest, I made my way to the master bath, greeted with the sight of his blurred body as he waited. Without looking down, I removed the towel from the door and turned my back as I passed it to him from outside.

When he'd adequately dried himself off, he pushed the door open, and I prepared myself for what would perhaps be a chilling sight once I laid eyes on his head.

As I finally looked down upon him, I found myself shocked. There were no burns upon his scalp, no scars, or scabbing, but instead sprouts of blond hair that seemed to reach out into the loosest of waves. It was almost the length that I'd known him to have in the past. My eyes wandered lower to his face, also untouched with skin that appeared almost new, but darkened under his eyes due to his expected fatigue. The skin of his neck was also perfect, free of any blemishes or signs of trauma, but as I allowed my eyes to rove over his chest and arms, I began seeing the signs of him healing from the damage that would have killed a normal person. His hands had suffered the worst of it as far as his upper body was concerned, still blackened in some places, but scabbing only now. His arms were specked with paler skin that was covered with thin layers of the epidermis, highlighting that it was new.

Large scars stretched from his shoulders across his chest, dipping towards his abdomen. This scar was almost purple, given a sheen as well by a newly formed layer of skin. Uroboros, I assumed, had done this. His legs were hidden from sight, leading me to the conjecture that they had suffered the worst of the near incineration. His need for a wheelchair was enough to confirm my hypothesis, and for some reason, it also led me to refuse to look at his feet. I didn't know what I'd see there, and despite being so near a sink, I was far too frightened that it would lead me to vomit in the presence of a still-somewhat proud man that at one point could crush my larynx with a pinch.

He'd instructed me on which clothes to pull from his closet, hesitant to ask for my help in getting dressed. I would see far too much that way, and this brought me to wonder if he still had… It didn't matter. I was curious though. So much of him that was delicate had survived.

"You should just let me help you," I said in vexation. "You can't even walk, so I know that you can't possibly get any of your bottoms on."

A spark had ignited, his lip threatening to curl into a snarl. He had no appreciation for a suggestion that he was incapable of doing for himself.

Quickly, I suggested, "Look, we'll get you on the bed and I'll close my eyes." So we did just that, however, it proved to be difficult navigating what went where. It also startled me almost noticeably every time my hands brushed up against what felt like scabbed skin. Over a year after he'd been presumed dead, and all he had to show was a wheelchair and some scabs. I'd heard subdued grunts throughout the ordeal, but he made no verbal complaint, and my kid-glove handling of him gave little reason for him to.

I thought that the worst was over then until we'd gotten him back in his chair and he began coughing as he had before. He leaned forward, coughing so hard that I knew his head had to have begun hurting.

Had he been someone else, I would have shown the slightest bit of compassion. "What do you need?" My voice was calm, although inside I was beginning to feel the effects of my previously checked apprehension.

"Pills!" he managed to get out. His hand shot in the direction of the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

There were five bottles, all with counterfeit labeling wrapped around the orange containers. "Which one?"

He sounded worse. "All!"

I scooped them up into my arms, hurrying back to him. One by one, I dumped a pill into the palm of my hand, carefully handing them over to him. My anxiety began to show as I dashed into the bathroom get him a glass of water.

Once he swallowed the medication, he seemed to calm, his breath now shallow.

Before I could ask him how he felt I heard a knock on the door. "What the fuck is going on?"

As I reached the bedroom door he coughed again. "Take your gun."

"We're going to have a talk later," I swore, going to pick up my gun from the kitchen counter where I'd left it. He had to know something to give me that warning. Peering through the peephole revealed nothing, and with a deep breath, I pulled the door open almost violently. I really hoped that none of the other tenants ever witnessed me in one of these moments, because I was sure that there would be plenty more at this point.

No one was in sight. With my weapon aimed at the floor, I looked to my left and then my right. Then I saw it, a small, black box that had been set in front of my door. Before I left the doorway, I checked the left again, still seeing no one. I walked quietly, fully expecting my terrorizers to have the ability to hear a pin drop. Slowly, I lowered myself to eye what appeared to be a large ring box. My fingers passed over the velvet as I continued to check my surroundings before I finally picked it up. I didn't know what this was, but just as it could have been a prank, it could have been a threat.

I turned it away from me, opening it backward. When nothing had sprung out I turned it around, almost dropping it to the ground, bile and last night's tacos threatening to make their way up and out of my throat. Covered in blood, nestled into a wad of tissue was a severed nose.

A/N: Claire is finding herself wrapped up in so much trouble that honestly, Wesker is seeming like the least of it. Is he going to be of any help though? Whose nose was left at the door? Hmmmm. Well, shoot me a review to let me know what you all think.


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